


Dodging

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [39]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5857501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fugitives in the aftermath of a templar ambush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dodging

The templars were waiting for Hawke and Anders at a river crossing just south of Wildervale. First real trouble they’ve run into since parting from Carver and the others, and maybe if it wasn’t just the two of them, they would have seen the ambush coming. But the first sign of the templars’ presence was the cold shock as Hawke’s mana was cut out from under him, leaving him dazed, unable to tell which way was up until Justice roared forward at his side. And when it’s all over, he’s irritated with himself about that, at letting himself be caught off guard.

Too many blind spots, too many openings where he’s still expecting a bark of warning, or Varric or Merrill to fill in the gaps.

He finishes searching the bodies, and he’d been hoping to find some kind of orders, something to indicate where he had gone wrong, how the templars knew where to expect them or if there’s another patrol waiting at the next crossing, but there’s nothing. Likely they weren’t expecting him and Anders at all, or they would have sent a larger ambush; but there might be other escapees from Kirkwall in the area. It would have been good to know.

When he gives up, Anders is still glowing, standing a short distance away, blank blue eyes turned toward the far horizon.

“Anders?” Hawke calls, questioning.

Anders answers without turning to look at him. “There may still be more,” he says with Justice’s voice.

When Hawke reaches his side, he can taste the mana bleeding out into the air through the cracks in Anders’ skin. Just the thought of what that must feel like right now makes him wince. He’s running on the last dregs of his mana, a bone-deep ache, and Anders can’t be much better off.

There’s no movement along the river that Anders is restlessly scanning. Hawke’s pretty sure they’ve scared off the ferryman. And there’s no sign of anybody else lying in wait, so Hawke watches Anders instead, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the blood along his cheek from a cut that he hasn’t moved to heal, deep and ugly.

The blade had caught Anders right beneath the eye, frighteningly close. And he hadn’t flinched, hadn’t tried to avoid it.

“I will not let them take you,” Justice says now.

“I know.” Hawke leans forward until he can look right up into that blue film over Anders’ eyes, until he can be sure Anders is focusing on him. “They’re not going to take me. They’re not taking either of us.”

Fine words, after he’d just walked them straight into an ambush. This was a closer call than he’d like to admit.

Blood runs down the side of Anders’ cheek, the scent of the Fade laced into it, and Hawke’s eyes follow the movement. If Merrill had been here, the templars’ abilities wouldn’t have mattered; they might be able to cut her off from the Fade for a while, but blood was everywhere. They couldn’t cut her off from that.

He puts that thought out of his head.

His father had always spoken with such contempt for those who turned to blood magic. Not with the same horror Hawke heard from others—and he’s not sure how he feels about that now, after the Wardens. But those childhood lessons are still drilled into him, and it was never that blood magic was corrupt, it was just _foolish,_ and only a fool would turn to it. Just made things worse for yourself, for all of them; just proved the templars right, proved that they were exactly what people feared. And fear was what got you killed. Nothing blood magic could give you could be worth that price.

But the Chantry already considers the two of them the worst of maleficar. It’s not as though anything he does now can make that worse.

Hawke lets out his breath in a sigh, lifts his hand to the ugly gash on Anders’ cheek and reaches out with a healing thread of creation magic, firmly cutting off that line of thought. He’s recovered enough to heal this much, at least.

But Justice’s fingers wrap around his wrist, stop him.

“The wound is minor. You should save your mana.”

“Says the spirit who burns through mana like it’s nothing. I’m all right, just come here.” And when Hawke reaches for him again, Anders doesn’t move to stop him.

Creation’s warmth settles between them, reminding the body of what it wants to do naturally and speeding it along. And it’s slower than it should be, and it still aches, using even this much magic; and it’s not the way Anders would have done it, but it’ll do. The bleeding stops. No more thoughts of blood magic.

It’s true, the wound is a minor one. A good thing, too. He’d been trying to learn a rudimentary spirit healing from Anders, enough to help out in the clinic on those nights when there were too many bad cases coming in too quickly, enough to keep a patient’s lungs working and heart pumping until Anders could get to them and heal them properly. But the wisps he’s managed to work with react unpredictably to Justice, sometimes reluctant, sometimes overeager.

And though Justice has stopped scanning the horizon, settling on quietly watching Hawke work instead, he still holds his staff with a death grip. Still showing no inclination to relax enough to stop glowing.

 _When we merged, Justice ceased to be_ , Anders had said, sitting on that crate.

Hawke searches his blue eyes now, not sure just what he’s looking for.

When the warmth fades, Hawke passes his thumb over Anders’ cheek, wiping away the blood and revealing unbroken skin underneath.

“You’ve gotten better at that.” And Hawke can hear a bit of Anders’ usual voice beneath that, but Justice raises a hand to explore the new skin, tentative—more spirit’s curiosity than healer’s professional analysis.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had to. Some of us aren’t getting any better at dodging.”

He says it lightly, but Justice’s head tilts towards him, questioning. A faint crease between his brows.

“You’re troubled.”

Hawke huffs a brief, disbelieving laugh. “And you are the picture of contentment.” He reaches out to trace one of the lines of light across the back of Anders’ hand.

He’s surprised when Justice turns his hand over, catches Hawke’s fingers, stopping the motion.

The light fades. And then Anders sags all at once against Hawke’s side.

“Oh. _Ouch_ ,” he says in his usual voice, freeing his hand to rub at his forehead. Belatedly feeling the effects of the battle without Justice’s presence to hold him up, the all-over ache of mana drained too hard and too fast. Hawke’s hand goes around him to support him, fingers splayed at the base of Anders’ back. And when Anders raises his head again, his eyes are brown.

“There. Picture of contentment,” Anders says, spreading his hands and gesturing to himself with a tired smile. He looks Hawke up and down uncertainly, as if looking for a wound he hadn’t seen. “ _Are_ you all right, love?”

“My ego took a bit of a beating, but I think I’ll live.”

Maker’s sake, he’d walked them into an ambush. And left Anders shaken enough that he’d stayed wrapped in Justice’s power long after the templars were dead. And he’d been forcibly reminded that two mages alone were vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

But he’ll live. They’ll live. He’ll make sure of it.


End file.
